The Nightingale and the Rose.

[Picture: Decorative graphic of young man lying on grass]rnrn“SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” criedrnthe young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”rnrnFrom her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and shernlooked out through the leaves, and wondered.rnrn“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filledrnwith tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I havernread all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets ofrnphilosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life madernwretched.”rnrn“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after nightrnhave I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I toldrnhis story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as thernhyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; butrnpassion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her sealrnupon his brow.”rnrn“The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young Student,“and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she willrndance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her inrnmy arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand willrnbe clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shallrnsit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and myrnheart will break.”rnrn“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of,rnhe suffers—what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderfulrnthing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals.rnPearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in thernmarketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it bernweighed out in the balance for gold.”rnrn“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “andrnplay upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the soundrnof the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet willrnnot touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throngrnround her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose torngive her”; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face inrnhis hands, and wept.rnrn“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him withrnhis tail in the air.rnrn“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after arnsunbeam.rnrn“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.rnrn“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.rnrn“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the littlernLizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.rnrnBut the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, andrnshe sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.rnrnSuddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.rnShe passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailedrnacross the garden.rnrnIn the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, andrnwhen she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.rnrn“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”rnrnBut the Tree shook its head.rnrn“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea, andrnwhiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who growsrnround the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”rnrnSo the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round thernold sun-dial.rnrn“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”rnrnBut the Tree shook its head.rnrn“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of thernmermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodilrnthat blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But gornto my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he willrngive you what you want.”rnrnSo the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneathrnthe Student’s window.rnrn“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”rnrnBut the Tree shook its head.rnrn“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove, andrnredder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in thernocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost hasrnnipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have nornroses at all this year.”rnrn“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose!rnIs there no way by which I can get it?”rnrn“There is a way,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I darernnot tell it to you.”rnrn“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”rnrn“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of musicrnby moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing tornme with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me,rnand the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow intornmy veins, and become mine.”rnrn“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale,“and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood,rnand to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariotrnof pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are thernbluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on thernhill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a birdrncompared to the heart of a man?”rnrnSo she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. Shernswept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed throughrnthe grove.rnrnThe young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him,rnand the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.rnrn“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your redrnrose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with myrnown heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be arntrue lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, andrnmightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings,rnand coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, andrnhis breath is like frankincense.”rnrnThe Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could notrnunderstand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew thernthings that are written down in books.rnrnBut the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of thernlittle Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.rnrn“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely when yournare gone.”rnrnSo the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like waterrnbubbling from a silver jar.rnrnWhen she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-bookrnand a lead-pencil out of his pocket.rnrn“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through therngrove—“that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I amrnafraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, withoutrnany sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinksrnmerely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still,rnit must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. Whatrna pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.”rnAnd he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, andrnbegan to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.rnrnAnd when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to thernRose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sangrnwith her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned downrnand listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper andrndeeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.rnrnShe sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.rnAnd on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellousrnrose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, atrnfirst, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of thernmorning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose inrna mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was thernrose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.rnrnBut the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.“Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will comernbefore the rose is finished.”rnrnSo the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder andrnlouder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul ofrna man and a maid.rnrnAnd a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like thernflush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride.rnBut the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remainedrnwhite, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of arnrose.rnrnAnd the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.“Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will comernbefore the rose is finished.”rnrnSo the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thornrntouched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter,rnbitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang ofrnthe Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in therntomb.rnrnAnd the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky.rnCrimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.rnrnBut the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began tornbeat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song,rnand she felt something choking her in her throat.rnrnThen she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and shernforgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, andrnit trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the coldrnmorning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and wokernthe sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reedsrnof the river, and they carried its message to the sea.rnrn“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but thernNightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass,rnwith the thorn in her heart.rnrnAnd at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.rnrn“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red rose! Irnhave never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful thatrnI am sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned down and plucked it.rnrnThen he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rosernin his hand.rnrnThe daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding bluernsilk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.rnrn“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,”rncried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You willrnwear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tellrnyou how I love you.”rnrnBut the girl frowned.rnrn“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and, besides,rnthe Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybodyrnknows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”rnrn“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student angrily;rnand he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, andrna cart-wheel went over it.rnrn“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude; and,rnafter all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you haverneven got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has”;rnand she got up from her chair and went into the house.rnrn“What a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away. “Itrnis not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it isrnalways telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making onernbelieve things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and,rnas in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back tornPhilosophy and study Metaphysics.”rnrnSo he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and beganrnto read.rnrn [Picture: Decorative graphic of nightingale and rose]